


Goats and Ghosts and Gorges

by PrincessAutumnArcher



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Administration Courtiers, Advisor Arcana, Alternate Universe - College/University, Campy, Drama & Romance, Everyone Has a Crush on Apprentice, Gen, Humor, Multi, Murder Mystery, No MC pronouns, Other, Whodunnit, oh boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26300296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessAutumnArcher/pseuds/PrincessAutumnArcher
Summary: Summer is over and the Apprentice couldn't be more excited to return to Arcana University—but when they inadvertently become the prime suspect of a murder, their return to campus quickly turns into a quest to clear their name before it's too late.Dark academia meets camp humor and thrills in PAA's high-energy whodunnit foray into the Arcana fandom. The Main Six are re-imagined as undergraduates whose lives entangle in the aftermath of a mysterious murder at Vesuvia House, Arcana U's most coveted residence.
Relationships: Apprentice (The Arcana) & Other(s), Main Six/Apprentice - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. Prologue

When the sun sets over Arcana University, the darkness brings a new kind of beauty; the light and chatter of students trickle from classrooms into dining halls, dorms, and apartments. Libraries settle into the determined, heavy-lidded silence of evening study. The swathes of forest that sprawl over the borders of campus wear growing shadows like rich velvet, a quiet rustle building in the spaces between frond and branch, root and earth. Wind cools the currents in the gorges to the east, singing melancholy yet content hymns into their depths; the echo of wind and stone fades in Arcana’s center, muffled by ivy-covered walls and hills, but at the foot of one such hill, tucked behind a copse of trees, the wind rises strong and sweet in front of Vesuvia House.

It’s just past noon when you arrive on campus. The cab you took from the airport peels away, leaving you with your bags and a tingling sense of anticipation. The midday sun is scorching, beating down so fiercely that the asphalt shimmers. Before you rises a glorious beast of wood, stone, and glass.

Vesuvia House seems to glow in front of a brilliant blue sky; a thrill runs through you as you take in the grand, glittering façade of the manor. Vesuvia is Arcana’s finest, most coveted housing—and by far its most selective. Minutes away from central campus, regularly maintained grounds, free laundry, and no shortage of gorge views to die for: it’s no surprise that countless students apply every year, hoping to claim a room on its famously palatial grounds as their own. You recall your own application with a faint buzz of pride, and don’t attempt suppressing the victorious grin that springs to your face.

The sound of an unfamiliar voice calling your name breaks you from your recollection; you look up to meet a friendly, ocean blue gaze and a smile brighter than a star.

“That’s me,” you reply, frantically wracking your brain in an attempt to place a name to the curvy redhead jogging towards you. “Um…have we met before?”

She laughs. “No, don’t worry. I’m Portia.”

A relieved smile washes over you like ice. “Nice to meet you. I’m—” you begin before belatedly remembering that she already (evidently) knows who you are.

The freckles on her cheeks stretch into new constellations as Portia laughs again, warm and genuine, and you relax despite your embarrassment. She reaches for one of your suitcases, batting away your protests.

“I live here too,” she says cheerfully as you head together to the front door, luggage in tow. “Nadi—ahem, Nadia told all the returning residents about who was moving in this year, and…well, I couldn’t stand waiting to find out more.”

Portia winks at you as you haul your things through the intricately carved front door. She’s stronger than you’d assumed on first glance; the door is _heavy_ , dense with hundreds of years of memories and varnish, but Portia shoulders it open without batting an eye.

When you see who’s waiting for you in the foyer, it takes a considerable amount of self-control not to drop your bag to the floor and yourself to your knees.

Nadia Satrinava is standing and smiling at you not five feet away, and she’s just as intimidating and beautiful as all the posters plastered across campus advertising her campaign for class representative have led you to believe. Even in the sweltering heat, she cuts a distinguished, impressive figure; she’s dressed immaculately in tailored lavender linen, violet hair pulled elegantly away from her leonine face.

She fixes you with that calm, regal gaze, and you swear your heart skips a beat.

“Welcome to Vesuvia.”

A spark of recognition flares in Nadia’s eyes at your face. She speaks your name like a bell, chiming clear and confident in the air.

“Your application was quite impressive. I’m glad you decided to accept our invitation.”

You stammer out your thanks as Portia beams and rushes forward to embrace Nadia. Somewhat to your surprise, Nadia returns the embrace, squeezing Portia tightly and grinning back.

“Welcome back, Portia. You know the way, I presume?”

Nadia’s voice is light, almost playful, but you still can’t help but gape as Portia rolls her eyes at her. They both laugh and Portia turns to you, tossing a thick auburn curl over her shoulder.

“You’re in the double upstairs, right?”

You nod in confirmation, a wry grin playing at the corner of your mouth. You’re fairly certain Portia already knows, an assumption she confirms with another cheeky wink before she offers, “I can show you to your room!”

“A wonderful idea,” Nadia comments as she hands you your key and a small welcome packet. “Don’t hesitate if you have any questions—my room is just down the hall.” She nods past the gleaming wooden staircase and a painting of the house’s founder to a corridor.

“Thank you.” You hesitate, unsure of how to address her. Her eyes soften and her hands lingers warmly over yours.

“Just Nadia is fine.” Her gaze glitters as she adds, “Mistress is only when I’m in a suit. Boardroom protocol, you see.”

Heat flares in your cheeks as Nadia releases your hands, smiling calmly. Portia is nice enough to stifle her giggle as you follow her up a flight of stairs and down a hallway. She stops in front of a cherry wood door and raps on it.

“This one’s yours! Bathroom is across the hall,” she points, “and there’s a kitchenette over there, you can keep things for snacks and simple meals there. Nadi has a ton of fancy teas in the one downstairs, hehe. Main kitchen is downstairs, by the dining room, we all take turns with cleaning and chores—don’t worry, this is all in the welcome packet too,” she adds with a grin as your nods of understanding begin to slow under the torrent of information. “I’ll let you get settled—I don’t think your roommate is in yet.”

With a bright smile, Portia leaves you to unlock the door and see your home for the year for yourself.

The faint lemony scent of cleaning polish greets you when you step in, followed by the undertones of natural wood it must have been used on; the hardwood floor creaks slightly under your feet as you shift them, turning slightly to look around the room.

It’s larger than you expected, even with the rumors of Vesuvian rooms being twice the size of any dorm. A large alcove directly opposite the door boasts a window seat with a glorious view of the gorge stretching out behind the house. Two smaller windows sit above the two identical desks on either side of the alcove, allowing enough daylight into the room that you doubt you’ll ever need the overhead light while the sun is up. Two beds face each other, flanked by what you assume are closet doors; as you deliberate which side to take, the door swings open behind you.

A delighted gasp escapes you at the sight of your roommate’s face; as with the other effects in the room, your glee is mirrored on his features.

“Asra!” you exclaim, rushing forward to meet him in an elated hug. He smells comfortingly of sandalwood incense and rosewater, his arms warm and strong around you. Fluffy white hair tickles your neck before Asra pulls back, a wide smile illuminating his features.

“We’re roomies!”

You laugh riotously; his enthusiasm is infectious.

“I can’t believe we both managed to get into Vesuvia!” you gush excitedly. “You didn’t even tell me you applied!”

Asra’s smile tightens for an instant, tension so fleeting you’re not sure if you only imagined it. “Must have slipped my mind,” he shrugs. You pause, but seeing him again after a summer spent practically on opposite ends of the planet, you’re too overjoyed to press the matter.

A purple flicker in your peripheral vision draws your attention. Two carmine eyes blink at you and a scarlet tongue flickers out, tasting the air in front of you.

“You remember Faust, don’t you?” Asra asks. He lifts the snake from her winding perch in his scarf and holds her out slightly to you. Her tail wiggles happily as you lean in and gently stroke her cool scales.

“I sure do,” you coo. Asra grins and pivots his arm so Faust can wind herself over his shoulders.

“She missed you over the summer,” Asra tells you. The two of you move comfortably with each other, falling into mutual unpacking without missing a beat. His presence feels _right_ , a gentle, comforting warmth resting against you.

“I missed you both,” you say quietly, trying your best to sound casual. It’s true; Asra had gone from freshman advisor to best friend in what seemed like the blink of an eye. You’d spent most of the year together, bantering your way through the adventures of university life.

Asra catches the sudden sobriety in your voice and turns, smile softening. “I missed you too,” he says, and you can feel how much he really means it. “Video calls just aren’t the same, huh?”

You shake your head, unwilling to trust your voice not to break.

“Let me make it up to you,” Asra offers, a note of desperation seeping into his voice. “Dinner tonight? We can catch up on everything. My treat.”

You nod, a smile breaking through the blocky obstruction where your heart had lodged itself in your throat. Asra’s violet eyes sparkle reassuringly at you and you decide to be brave. “It’s a date,” you say nonchalantly, hands tingling.

“A date?” Asra muses. His grin tilts mischievously, dimple deepening. “I like the sound of that.”

You whip around to hide your glowing cheeks under the pretense of folding a shirt, but you can’t stop the giddy smile that rises to your face like a bubble in champagne.

The Ethiopian restaurant Asra takes you to that evening is just the right size to be cozy but not cramped. The two of you tuck away into a corner table, exchanging stories of your summers over candlelight and spiced flatbread. Aromatic cardamom and fennel seed swirl out from the kitchen, perfuming your conversation.

“—but you’ll never guess what happened then!” Asra waits until you shrug expectantly at him to continue, “So there I am, barbecue sauce on my boss’s white Valentino bag, and all I’ve got is my tarot deck and some paint thinner.”

“Oh my God. How’d you get it out?”

Asra’s story has you breathless and on the edge of your seat. It’s always like this with Asra; he lives life like the undying hero of an epic film, and it’s intoxicating. He leaves a trace of himself everywhere he goes, lingering on everyone he meets. There’s no doubt in your mind that you could track his steps at his studio internship this past summer by a long trail of gently broken and besotted hearts.

Asra rests his cheek on one hand, a rueful grin lifting the corners of his mouth. “Very carefully.” The arrival of your food stops him from elaborating; you inhale the fragrant steam rising from your plate, Asra’s affectionate gaze warming you more than the rich spiciness you can already taste at the back of your throat.

“But that’s enough about me. How’ve you been? I know we’ve talked, but…”

You hesitate, drawing lines in your food with the tines of your fork.

“…it’s really good to see you again,” you say finally. Asra’s brow begins to furrow, concern streaking across his eyes, but you cut him off before it can spill out his mouth. “I’m really excited for this year! I can’t believe I got into Vesuvia—and rooming with you?! It’s a dream come true.”

Asra smiles, but you can tell he’s not ready to let the topic go just yet. He says your name carefully, as though every syllable is made of glass, and a streak of foreboding weighs down your blood.

“Speaking of Vesuvia…have you heard anything about it? Gossip? Rumors?”

Bewildered, you shake your head. “No, why? Have you? Did something happen?”

Asra visibly relaxes, tension leaching out of his body as he takes a sip of tea.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s just…there was this arson a while back, and some people on campus never really got over it. Just don’t get super freaked out if people mention it when they find out you live in Vesuvia. It’s no big deal, I just thought you should know.”

You nod, mulling it over. “Gotcha…thanks for warning me. Did they catch whoever did it?”

Whatever Asra ordered must have been incredibly spicy, because he chokes as soon as the fork enters his mouth, spluttering and hacking into his napkin. He waves off your attempts at giving him your water, grimacing through watery eyes.

“I’m good, I’m good. Uh, yeah, but the university wanted to keep it hush-hush, so I don’t know what happened afterwards.”

The information sinks in slowly, melting along with the taste of turmeric on your tongue. Your face must betray the conflict and concern whirling in your brain, because Asra says quickly, touching your hand lightly, “I haven’t heard of or from the guy since! And Nadia worked with the admins to revamp Vesuvia’s security and everything, so don’t worry. We’ll be perfectly safe.”

His reassurances work as intended, and despite your lingering curiosity, you soon find yourself wholeheartedly engaged in a riveting discussion of the questionable legality of Asra’s tarot reading and exam divination business. The night passes by, and as the candlesticks begin to dwindle along with the amount of food on your plates, you notice something strange.

“Asra?”

He looks up at you curiously, wiping up the last dribbles of roasted red pepper sauce with a scrap of flatbread. You lean in, lowering your voice as your peer at the mysterious seated man whose gaze has been burning into the back of Asra’s head for the past twenty minutes.

“You don’t happen to have a friend who’s super into weightlifting, do you? Maybe with a penchant for black hoodies?”

The mild confusion on Asra’s face clears and he turns in his seat to call enthusiastically, “Muriel!”

Black Hoodie starts, fork clattering loudly against his plate. A burning green gaze sears yours for a moment before the man clears his throat and attempts to fold in on himself. Asra doesn’t seem to notice; he’s just as cheery as ever when he waves him over to your table; Muriel hesitates before grimacing and complying, the flickering gaze he shoots at you a clear sign that he’d rather do anything else. The strong, musky smell of dry straw and something pungent hits you. It’s not unpleasant, stirring some vague memory of sunshine and large animals to your frontal cortex.

“Muriel, this is my roommate,” Asra introduces you, a strange note creeping into his voice when he adds, “We’re living together in Vesuvia this year.”

Muriel stills, face contorting through shock, frustration, and resignation in a flash. “…okay.”

The strangeness lacquering Asra’s voice spreads to his eyes for a split second before he notices you looking and replaces it with his usual gentle smile. If Muriel hadn’t looked to be on the verge of tearing out of the restaurant and taking Asra with him, you would have almost been convinced.

Asra clearas his throat, gesturing to Muriel. “This is Muriel. I guess you haven’t met before….we’re old friends.” Asra turns to Muriel and adjusts his position to create something more open between the three of you. “You moved up into a place past North Forest, right? Closer to the barn?”

“…yeah.” Muriel’s answer is more a grunt than anything else, and you can feel him eyeing you suspiciously. Quickly, as if each word pains him, he tells Asra, “I need to talk to you. He’s back. You need to be careful.”

Alarm flickers over Asra’s face, but before he can say anything, Muriel turns and slaps a twenty on his table. The door chimes seconds later and as suddenly as he arrived, he’s gone.

You turn to Asra, thoroughly baffled. Pensive anxiety is scrawled over his face, tense despite his efforts to hide it. He offers you a carefully constructed smile, just enough worry flickering at the corners of his mouth that you reluctantly dilute your questions.

 _Are you in trouble? Can I do something for you?_ is what you _want_ to say, but instead, you constrain yourself to:

“Are…are you okay? Do you wanna talk about anything?”

Asra pauses before his smile returns to something closer to its true self. His fingers stretch out towards you but stop short, resting lightly on the table between you.

“Don’t worry about me,” he tells you, neatly avoiding your questions. The strangeness and worry is still there, lending graininess to his voice, but sincerity fleshes it out. “Muriel’s pretty cryptic at the best of times, and he’s not really a fan of socializing with new people.”

“Oh…” You search Asra’s face, but a few seconds make it clear that whatever Muriel was talking about, he’s not willing to discuss it. Finally, you settle for asking, “So Muriel…is he a student at Arcana too? I didn’t even know there was housing that far north.”

Something like relief washes over Asra’s face before he answers, brightness restored to his voice. “There aren’t any university-owned places past the dining halls up north, but there are a few apartments and houses for rent. Muriel has a studio really close to the barn. He’s in animal science, so it’s pretty convenient for him.”

You nod, mustering up a smile for Asra’s sake. “I’m glad I got to meet him.”

A waiter comes up with a dessert menu. “Care for dessert? We currently have a special on t’ej baklava.”

You’re stuffed, but with the way Asra’s eyes sparkle at the prospect of honey wine drizzled over roasted nut-stuffed figs and flaky pastry, you can’t help but feel your own mouth begin to water.

“We’ll take an order,” you say, and a warm, glowing thrill spreads through your chest at the sheer glee that blooms over Asra’s face.

The night is far from young when you and Asra leave the restaurant and head back to Vesuvia. Later summer air passes balmy hands over your skin; in the dark between streetlamps, everything feels ripe with potential and ready to burst.

It’s the sound that hits you first, followed by the pungent combination of sweat and spilled alcohol. You and Asra stop in your tracks as Vesuvia’s pillars rise up in front of you, historical façade shuddering with subwoofer and synth. Light pours out of every window and shadows shift on the lawn as people mill about inside.

Someone stumbles out the front door, laughter bubbling out their throat; you swerve to avoid them as they wobble past you, offering a slurred apology as they careen by.

Asra’s lip curls in distaste as he stalks up the front walkway. You follow, a grimace setting in over your mouth, as Asra plows through the heavy front door. The stench of hot bodies and liquor assaults you with your first step over the threshold. Your skull throbs, but you can’t pinpoint if it’s from the choking smell, the crush of the crowd, or the pounding music. Asra’s scowl deepens but he doesn’t slow, stalking through partygoers and beelining for the kitchen, your hand clasped firmly in his.

The door is closed, with a keypad staring out forebodingly from beside the handle (briefly, you wonder who on earth has tried to break into the kitchen often enough to necessitate a lock); Asra punches in the code so fast his fingers blur, and shoves the door open.

Someone clips your shoulder and you stumble—you catch a garbled apology over the deafening music, but they’re gone before you can respond. You turn on instinct, trying to track the body in the crowd, but it’s too late. You only catch a glimpse of Portia looking upset across the hall—her eyes widen when she spots you, but then Asra calls your name and you duck into the kitchen after him.

The door clicks shut behind you and your attention shifts to the clash of titans in the center of the kitchen.

“—completely irresponsible, not to mention inconsiderate. Did it ever occur to you to consult the other people who live here before throwing a party and inviting half the student body?!”

Nadia is on fire; searing steel is still in her eyes when she turns at your and Asra’s arrival, cooling slightly only when you both visibly recoil. She nods curtly before turning back to her original target. You can’t help but notice that one of her hands is curled tightly in a fist, half-hidden by how tightly it’s pressed against her thigh.

“C’mon, Noddy,” the blond man across from her wheedles coaxingly.

His face is uncannily familiar; you squint at him trying to figure out how you know it. He notices your gaze and grins cockily at you. One hand rakes through the golden hair pushed back frorm his forehead; his fingers glint under the fluorescent lights and you suppress a gasp as you realize his left arm is the most impressive, absolutely _extra_ prosthetic you’ve ever seen.

A memory—a news article about Arcana’s varsity recruitment from the summer before your freshman year, forwarded by a curious aunt—hits you suddenly before evaporating, leaving his name on the tip of your tongue.

_Lucas? Luigi? Lucifer?_

His voice breaks you out of your attempts to remember his elusive name. “A little party never hurt anyone! And give me some credit, there’s _way_ more than just half the student body here.”

You can almost see the smoke billowing from Nadia’s ears. “Lucio, I can _smell_ at least five house code violations from here. And that’s _without_ counting your cologne.”

Lucio pouts at her; you have no idea how he isn’t wilting under Nadia’s hell-to-pay glare. “Okay, so there may have been an oopsie or two in the planning—but that’s because I had to do it all without you! You’re so good at this kind of thing, Noddy! How about you take charge of the next one, huh? How’s next Tuesday sound?”

If Nadia was angry before, you’re fairly certain she’s about to explode now. Before she opens her mouth to deliver the maelstrom you can see building between her eyes, Asra speaks up from beside you, his voice burning with a cold snarkiness you’ve never imagined could come from him.

“Pretty big ‘ _oopsie_ ’ this time. You still got enough dirty money to clean this one up after last time?”

“Still bitter?” Lucio sneers. His grey gaze flickers to you almost…pointedly? You’re probably just imagining it, but Lucio’s eyes seem to rest on your face until Asra exhales, long and rough. “You should go dance a little, Asra, maybe that’ll loosen you up enough to get the stick out from—”

“—that is _enough_!” Nadia and Lucio may be the same height, but she’s towering over everyone now, sparks fairly flying from her eyes. A finger strikes out accusingly at Lucio. “Quiet hours started nearly two hours ago and this is an unregistered event. You organized; you will be the one attending behavioral compact courses and completing the required remedial university cooperative housing compliance documents.”

Her eyes shift to Asra, cutting off Lucio’s protests like the slice of a sword. “Everyone here signed a residential agreement. I am more than happy to arrange mediation sessions should they become necessary, but it is in no one’s best interest to escalate this situation right now. Do I make myself clear?”

A reluctant chorus of mumbled “yes”es answers Nadia. When her eyes meet yours, she looks incredibly tired.

“I’m sorry your first night at Vesuvia has turned out to be…” her eyes bore into Lucio’s lingering smirk, “such a disappointment. Please try to get some rest. The party is over, and this will be sorted out as quickly as possible.”

Awkwardly, you shuffle over to the door. Asra follows, jaw set, after shooting a frosty glare back at Lucio.

You expect Asra to come with you to your room, but he pauses at the landing instead.

“You go ahead,” he says, voice still tight with anger. “I’ve got a few things to take care of—I’ll try not to wake you.”

The smile he offers you is so taut and thin that it transforms his face into someone unfamiliar for an instant, but before you can do anything, Asra turns and heads down the stairs again.

“Okay…” you tell the empty hallway.

Lucio’s party rages on just below (although if you listen carefully, you can hear Nadia and Portia’s voices sternly at work shutting it down), and it suddenly occurs to you that there’s a non-negligible possibility that you’ll have to kick someone— _several_ someones—out of your room before you can sleep.

“Oh, _please_ no,” you mutter, anxiety quickening your blood as you rush over to your room door.

Before you set a hand on the doorknob, the door swings open and a lanky figure, half his face obscured by a curly shock of auburn hair, nearly walks into you—you rear back in surprise, and so does he.

“ _Oh Jesus_ —ahem, sorry, just looking for, uh…” He trails off for a moment before his eyes alight on something behind you and he grins rakishly. “The bathroom! It’s not this one, in case you were wondering.”

He chuckles and makes to walk past you; you bar his path with your arm before you quite know what you’re doing. The shock that ripples over his face is, you’re sure, reflected on your own, but what makes you more determined not to let him go is the flicker of panic that follows through his visible eye.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” you say, walking forward so he has little choice but to retreat. You swing the door shut behind you casually, without looking, keeping a careful eye on the man in front of you. He’s tall and reasonably strong-looking, and you don’t fancy the idea of trying to physically grapple answers out of him, but you’re sure he came in here for a reason, and in descending order of importance, he is: mostly cooperative, not very good at lying on the spot, and seemingly sober.

“What is it, then?” you ask, pretending to glance around as if you’ve never seen the room before. You catch sight of the pictures you’d put up earlier—many of which contain your face—and quickly pivot so that your back is to Asra’s side of the room, forcing the intruder to turn to face you.

He coughs, a mess of emotions tangling on his face. “A—looks like a bedroom to me,” he answers quickly. His fingers twitch and he shoves them in his pockets. A muffled crinkling noise, like paper crumpling, emanates from his hip.

Your eyebrows shoot up.

“Yeah, sure does,” you agree, taking a step forward. He takes one back and makes a sound best described as a squeak.

You smile disarmingly. “Say, what’s your name?”

When he hesitates, you tell him yours. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip and his gaze darts behind you again.

“Faust.”

Immediately, your eyes narrow. “No, it isn’t. What’s your name?” you demand. On a hunch, you whip around and confirm: Faust’s tank is indeed behind you, suspiciously close to where the intruder’s gaze had flickered when you asked.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Just joking! I—it’s Julian. My name is Julian.”

You size him up again, taking in the black jeans ( _just_ this side of skinny) and half-open flannel—it’s not _not_ a party outfit, but something about Julian’s vibe makes you doubt he’s the type of person Lucio would make sure was at his party.

“Okay, Julian,” you say suspiciously. “What’s in your pocket?”

An unexpected smirk lifts one corner of his mouth—it’s the kind of expression a roguish hero in a cheesy spy movie would make, but you have to admit that Julian makes it work.

“Well, I can’t say meeting you was _unpleasant_ ,” he says.

It takes a second to click, but when it does, you’re torn between hitting him and bursting into hysterical laughter: you settle for a bark of laughter before you back him up against the foot of your bed. His cheeks flood with pink (also not a bad look on him, a distant corner of your brain muses) but he doesn’t move to stop you.

“Why were you in my room?” you ask, enunciating each word so clearly that every syllable feels like cut crystal rolling off your tongue.

Julian’s face goes slack with shock for a moment before something snaps inside him; defeat drips off his voice when he answers, “I…I was looking for someone.”

His gaze drifts behind you again, and something heavy, almost sad, mixes with anger in him. “You shouldn’t tell him I was here,” he says suddenly, nodding towards Asra’s bed. “It’ll only make your life harder, if you’re…attached to him.”

You let go of him, blinking in surprise. “Wha—wh—”

“Campus police!” A voice blares out from a bullhorn outside, followed by a shriek from downstairs. “Party’s over!”

You and Julian share a split second’s glance of shock; he recovers first, bounding off to the window alcove with a two-fingered salute from his temple.

“Well, that’s my cue. I’ll see you around!”

“Hey!” You rush after him, but you’re too slow—Julian throws open the window with a dramatic flourish, tosses one last wink at you, and swings over the ledge.

For a second, he vanishes and your heart stops—then, there’s a flash of movement and you spot him, climbing down like some goddamn Disney prince on the ivy-wound ledges by the pipes running down the side of the house.

Julian glances up, sees you (you think), and proceeds to jump down instead of climbing like a sane person; he lands without any injuries that you can see, and rounds the corner just as a campus police officer comes into view from the other side, shining a flashlight into the bushes and over the netted gorge just behind the house.

You duck back into your room and close the window; you’ve just fastened it when Asra enters.

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” he asks, apparently in a much better mood than when you parted.

“Nothing,” you answer quickly. “Just checking to see if anyone tried hiding out back.”

Asra frowns. “I hope not, they’d be at some serious risk of falling, even with the nets.”

You keep looking out the window a little longer before turning and getting ready for bed—Julian’s visit weighs heavy on your tongue, but you can’t forget the sudden somber gravity that had taken over Julian’s face when he’d warned you not to tell Asra. He could have been lying…but something tells you he wasn’t just trying to make an escape. And now that you thought about it…Faust hadn’t seemed alarmed by his presence at all. In fact, she’d almost seemed…excited.

“Okay if I turn the light off?”

Asra’s voice breaks you from your thoughts; startled, you turn and blink at him for the few seconds it takes to process his question.

“Oh, uh, yeah! Sorry.”

He eyes you oddly, but doesn’t question your reaction. With a flick of the switch, the room turns into a space of shadow and silver; clouds veil the moon, but a bright beam pours in through the unshaded window.

Asra grins lightly at the pillar of moonlight stretching across the floor from the window seat. “We can stargaze later in the fall,” he says happily as he settles in bed. “But we should also probably get a curtain…”

“Let’s ask Nadia tomorrow,” you suggest, crawling into your own bed.

“Mhm,” he agrees, followed by a wide yawn.

“Oh, Asra…are you missing anything, by any chance?” You can’t help but ask; with your strange encounters with Julian, Lucio, and Muriel swirling in your head, you have to do _something_ to get answers or you’ll never be able to sleep. At least you can try to figure out why Julian was in your room.

“Hm?” Asra’s voice is drowsy, and a pang of guilt hits you. “Not that I know of…oh, actually, yes. But it’s been gone for a while…my tarot deck, I’m missing a card.” Another yawn interrupts his sentence. “Why? I think I’ll get a new deck soon, if you wanted a reading.”

You roll onto your side and stare at the window Julian had exited from. “I just…I thought I saw someone come in here during the party, figured we should check.”

Asra’s quiet, and for a moment, you think he’s fallen asleep. Then, he says, voice gone cold and heavy, “Good idea. I didn’t notice anything, but that’s…concerning.”

He pauses, unloading the gravity from his voice; when Asra speaks again, it’s affected only by sleepiness. “Well, no use worrying about it now.” You can hear his smile in the little, half-lilting breath before he continues, “We can check together tomorrow.”

You hope your own voice doesn’t betray the turmoil in your brain. “That’s true. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight—” Asra cuts himself off with a yawn that stretches into a contented sigh. In a few minutes, you hear his breathing even, but you’re far from sleep despite the fatigue tugging at your eyelids.

Muriel’s cryptic warning at the diner…Lucio and Asra’s obvious mutual animosity…Portia’s inexplicable shock at seeing you earlier that night…Julian’s shady behavior…the odd events of the day tumble in your brain but fail to decipher themselves.

You fall asleep still trying to untangle everything, streak of moonlight glowing bright even through your closed eyelids.

You’re not sure what exactly wakes you—it’s a sudden sort of awakening that jolts you abruptly into consciousness, wiping away anything a dream might have given your brain and replacing it with disorientation and an electric sense of alarm.

The stretch between your bed and Asra’s is still gilded silver, almost blindingly so; a few deep gulps of air melts the dizzying sensation you woke with and calm the sudden force behind your heartbeats.

Maybe a quick breath of fresh air will help. You ease yourself out of bed, careful to set your feet down lightly so you don’t wake Asra—he’s told you he’s a heavy sleeper, but you don’t want to chance it.

His blankets don’t move when you cautiously tiptoe around your bed, but when you clear the edge of your bedframe, you realize that Asra’s bed is empty; his blanket is thrown back, revealing a hollow where his body had lain.

Whatever had woken you up had likely woken him too, you reason, or he could be in the bathroom. Asra’s absence slides to the back of your mind as you walk over to the window seat and carefully undo the latches on the window, then crack it open just enough for fresh night air to flow in.

You settle back against the frame of the alcove and make a mental note to grab some throw pillows when you can. Already, you can feel the quiet tranquility of the night seeping into you, helped along by the view from the window; the gorges are, well, gorgeous, as loath as you are to use the university-endorsed pun.

In the dark, the safety nets strung below the lip of the gorge are all but invisible, erasing the grim reminder of the darker side of Arcana’s most famous natural features. The beauty of sheer stone over water is stark in the moonlight, almost savage where its face cuts into shadow like cold fire.

You latch the window shut and lean against the windowpane, pressing your forehead against the glass. The surreal, rustling quiet (shy of silence) and silvery light bending over you feels like a dream, worlds removed from the abrupt awakening that had led you to this perch.

A flurry of motion in the paved lot behind the house catches your eye; you shift your position on the seat and peer down through the glass. A large shadow detaches itself from the bushes near the corner of the house and slides to the dumpsters; after a moment, a tendril extends— _head from body?_ —as though checking for witnesses.

Apparently satisfied, the shadow head retracts before moving as a whole across the paved lot; you watch with a hazy curiosity as it moves sluggishly from the shadows into the lit section of the lot. The edges of the shadow refine slowly before jumping sharply into focus; a section of the blob pulls away into a separate figure, distinct yet unidentifiable—they’re wearing baggy all black, and a hood pulled up over their face.

Their arms extend back into the blob they came from, distorting their shape for a moment, before they heave back with a soundless grunt; moonlight slides over them and onto the long, prone body gripped tightly by the wrists.

The dreamy haze you’d been observing with from the window freezes and shatters; eyes wide, you smash your face practically against the glass, unable to believe what your brain insists you’re seeing.

The shadow drags the body a few feet before yanking it up and seizing under its arms instead; the bloodied head lolls with sickening fluidity in the wake of its tossing, and you whimper. With the body in a more secure grasp, the figure is able to move much faster, speeding purposefully backwards towards the gorge. They maneuver carefully between the hazard signs warning of the sudden drop-off at the edge of the lot, jerking the body in their grasp until it too clears the barriers.

Their intent clicks a moment before they pause at the edge of the gorge overlook—“No, no, nonononono,” you mumble feverishly, fumbling blindly to grab your phone off your desk without losing sight of the figure—and switch their grip on the body back to the upper arms.

In one swift, fluid motion, the figure flings the body over the edge of the gorge—your outstretched, flailing hand knocks something off your desk and what sounds like approximately half the things on its surface crash down after—you let out a wordless scream as the body arcs through the air, limp as a ragdoll. Its limbs flap in the air, snapping like pennants.

For a split second, you think it might clip the edge of the safety net and roll in, but then its trajectory carries it _just_ far enough that it clears the net entirely and sails down into the depths of the gorge.

The figure peers over the edge as if to make sure the disposal succeeded, then strolls back the way it came. As they make their way back over Vesuvia’s back lot, they pause, and you realize that you’re in full view should they happen to glance up—you throw yourself backwards, landing hard on your tailbone with an audible bang.

The shock of pain cracks your horrified paralysis and you scramble for your phone; the fallen pile of things on your desk proves to be difficult rubble to extract it from, but eventually you manage. It takes two attempts to swipe to your emergency calls keypad, given that your fingers are shaking so badly you nearly drop your phone a few times.

The line rings once, twice…finally, someone picks up: “What is your emergency?”

The words spill out in a jumble, so fast your tongue feels numb. “There’s a dead body—someone just threw a body into the gorge—behind the house—I think they’re dead, oh my God—please, please, send someone—”

“Take a deep breath and slow down,” the person on the other end instructs you calmly; you obey, breath shuddering as you try to dam the outpour of babble. “Remain calm. Where are you located?”

“Ves-Vesuvia House. The co-op off central campus, by Olin Hall.”

You’re shaking now, shivers so violent that your phone is in danger of dropping again. If you weren’t already on the floor, you’d definitely have fallen by now; your knees feel as though they aren’t there at all, and everything except the teeth clacking against one another, occasionally scraping a bloated tongue, seems to have been transmuted into jelly. Your voice sounds painfully panicked and distended, but controlling it is impossible.

“Remain calm,” the dispatch responder tells you again, and you suddenly realize that you’re whimpering. “Officers are on their way to your location and will arrive shortly. Please remain calm and do not leave your current location.”

You answer, something insipid that slips like water through your teeth, and the dispatch responder says something in reply, but all you can hear is the grainy pound of your blood in your ears. The image of the body rippling and knocking against itself in midair, joints too loose, stains your mind.

The wood floor under you creaks as the dispatch officer disconnects and your hand drops from your ear. The room suddenly seems both frighteningly large and claustrophobically small, a sublime, threatening emptiness consuming you.


	2. Get Out the Red String

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accused of murder was not how you expected this semester to start off--but then again, nothing at Arcana U is really what it seems, is it? The clock is ticking to prove your innocence....

After witnessing someone forcibly yeet a body into the gorge behind Vesuvia, your night goes…as smoothly as the night of an unsuspecting yeet-murder witness could be expected to go.

Campus police returns to Vesuvia for the second time that night, followed by city police, and soon enough, you find yourself gathered in the house den with the other residents, all in varying states of sleepiness.

“First things first,” says one of the city officers, with a glance at his partner; she nods, pen floating above her open notepad. “I’ll need all your names and where you were at…4:32 this morning.”

He nods to the closest person: Nadia, who’s sitting fully-dressed in an armchair and looks very much displeased with how the night has turned out.

“Nadia Satrinava,” she says clearly, unfazed by the appraising scans neither officers bother to hide. “I was in the law library.”

The officer raises an eyebrow at her; a few seconds pass before his partner speaks up. “You pulled an all-nighter after calling us to shut down an illegal party here three hours before?”

Nadia’s own eyebrow twitches, but she restrains her obvious irritation to a mere sharpening of the eyes. “No. I went to sleep for a few hours, then woke up to get to the library as soon as it opened. I’ve been very busy recently balancing academic obligations with undergraduate council and campaigning.”

Your eyes widen; this is Nadia on two hours of sleep?! Suddenly all the rumors you’ve heard about her ( _not human, made a deal with the Devil, her blood is 80% caffeine, she had a brain surgery as a child that unlocked an ability to use 40% more neural pathways_ ) don’t seem so ridiculous.

It seems impossible that she’s so clear-eyed and frankly, functional, but Nadia doesn’t seem like the type of person to lie, especially in a situation like this. She is fully-dressed, and in a different outfit than when you’d seen her during move-in.

Nadia catches your stare and offers you a bemused half-smile; embarrassment at being caught floods your face with heat as you flash a mortified attempt at a grin back at her.

“And you’re the head RA at Vesuvia House?” The officer’s question breaks Nadia’s eyes from you.

Her quiet inhale is no less vexed than an eyeroll, but Nadia pauses diplomatically before answering calmly, “Not quite, although my position is similar. The house is a cooperative residence with the university. The university does not employ me, but they did select me and my running-mate to be residential leaders after our application.”

The officer’s pen scritches loudly across her notepad as you exchange awkward glances with the other residents.

Portia’s fingers haven’t stopped scrunching the fabric of her nightgown since she walked in, and the furrow in her brow is deeper than warranted by mere fatigue. Beside her (although she’s curled herself up as far to the other side of the couch as humanly possible) sits Lucio, looking incredibly bored. He grins when your eyes meet, prompting a quiet but thoroughly disgusted “ugh” from Asra where he’s perched on the loveseat arm next to you.

Lucio’s grin falls, his eyebrows angling down, but before the insults start flying, the officers move on.

“And you, miss?”

Portia starts, and Nadia’s eyes lock onto her like a hawk. “She was—”

“No interruptions, please,” the officer cuts Nadia off firmly. She falls silent, but displeasure and concern war on her face.

“Your name, and where you were?” prompts the officer once more, turning back to Portia.

She clears her throat, skirt twisting under anxious fingers. “My name’s Portia Devorak, and I was asleep in my room.”

Her eyes dart in your direction and you try to smile comfortingly at her; you’d had no idea Portia would be so affected, but it makes sense: she’d been so sweet earlier, it was no wonder she was this empathetic. After all…someone who’d probably been dancing and laughing just hours ago was now dead. A sharp pang of horror slams into you again and your smile wavers.

The officer’s pen pauses. “Your room, you said?”

The color drains out of Portia’s face. “Well, I’m not listed as an official resident, but I do stay at Vesuvia.”

You stare at her in shock—hadn’t she told you she lived in Vesuvia when you met? Portia avoids your gaze, clenching her nightgown tightly. Unease creeps into your belly. Why would she have lied? What was she trying to hide?

You glance at Nadia; she’s watching the exchange with the keenness of a falcon, her mouth set in a grim line.

The officers exchange a glance. Portia, despite looking, at this point, almost identical to a sheet of paper with two large, blue, photorealistic eyes drawn on it, says with nary a tremble in her voice, “I have an off-campus apartment, but I sleep at Vesuvia often. It’s, ahem, an interpersonal relationship, if you catch my drift.”

The room is so still and fraught every breath feels like a transgression. The scratchy rustle of Lucio’s prosthetic fingers on the sofa upholstery is deafening, and you can’t believe that Portia is somehow managing to pull off a mildly embarrassed smile.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the note-taking officer purses her lips and nods. “Alright. We’ll be in touch, Miss Devorak, and I don’t doubt the university would like to hear about this as well.”

That seems wildly invasive and inappropriate to you, and you’re tempted to say so, but before you get the chance, she turns to Lucio, pen at the ready. Before she even has a chance to ask for his name, he perks up, sitting straight and raking a hand through his hair as though prepping for a photoshoot rather than a police statement.

“Finally, my turn!” he exclaims brightly. If you hadn’t been waiting to give your own statement as the witness to a literal murder, his misplaced enthusiasm would have been hilarious. Lucio grins broadly.

“Lucio Morgasson,” he says, in a voice that wouldn’t have been out of place at an awards ceremony. “I wasn’t at Vesuvia.” His grey eyes cut to Nadia, a pout wrinkling his face for an instant before self-assurance slides over his features again. “ _Someone_ was no fun, so I went out with some friends. I think I would have been at Kappa Delt around 4:30? Or maybe the Lambda house…”

“…right.”

The officer doesn’t seem too concerned with the details of Lucio’s partying schedule, which leaves you in the hot seat. You give them your name and sum up what you’d seen for their notes; the officers don’t spend too much time on you before moving on to Asra, who gives them his name solemnly.

“Alnazar?”

Asra nods, a careful smile spreading over his face. “Yes, Asra Alnazar. A-L-N-A-Z-A-R.”

The officer squints at him. “I remember you. You were running that pop-up shop out of your dorm—look, it’s nothing personal, but I’ve got to note that you’ve got a disciplinary history.”

Indignant outrage colors Asra’s protest: “That case has been closed for a year now! It doesn’t have anything to do with this, anyways!”

“Sorry, it’s standard procedure.”

He sighs, obviously frustrated, but lets it go. “I was asleep—where else would I have been at four in the morning?”

You swallow the surprise that wells up sharp in your throat, but you can’t completely cover your shock; the officer doesn’t seem to notice, but Asra’s hand very purposefully grazes yours.

Had you just imagined it? No, you were sure of what you’d seen—his bed had been empty, blankets tossed aside. A sudden revelation dawns upon you, icy horror gripping your spine: Asra’d taken an awfully long time to be in the bathroom.

The back of his hand is warm against yours, but for once, Asra’s touch brings no comfort—is this the ride-or-die test of your friendship? Is he seriously expecting you to cover for his involvement in a _murder_?! Another possibility slams into you like a freight train: does he even know you saw his empty bed? But this is all ridiculous—Asra would never kill someone!

…would he?

The frenzy in your skull screeches to a halt as the officer clicks her pen and flips her notepad shut with a curt nod.

“You’re all free to go,” she says. “We’ll be in contact with you individually should further statements become necessary.”

The officers leave; once the door shuts behind them, the stiff formality in the room dissipates—Nadia is the first to move, pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing heavily as she unfolds herself from the chair.

“It’s still early—I suggest you all try to rest.” She offers the room a small smile—one that wilts when she gets to Lucio, who’s too engrossed in examining his reflection in the TV screen to care (if he notices at all).

“What about you, Nadia?” Your voice is small, but it rings absurdly loud in the still-shocked silence following Nadia’s suggestion.

She turns to you, blinking in mild surprise, as though the idea of sleep is entirely novel to her. “I…usually rise early. I find studying more effective in seclusion removed from a residential environment.”

Now it’s your turn to wear surprise, mouth shaping a soft “o” as you stare in bewildered concern. “Nadia…there’s no way you can study well on so little sleep. You need rest too.”

She quirks an eyebrow at you. “I…am touched by your concern, but really, there’s no need to worry about me.” Despite the fluent, casual confidence in her words, fatigue slows the polished smile that Nadia coaxes to her lips.

It’s almost painful to watch, and you consider telling her as much before carefully considering your words and trying again, hesitantly: “It seems like an investigation is starting—they’re sure to call us all in for further questioning. Vesuvia depends on continued university support to stay a residential community, so you’ll definitely have a lot on your plate in the next few days—not to say you _can’t_ handle it all, but surely it wouldn’t hurt to have a bit more sleep before it starts?”

Nadia’s gaze doesn’t falter at all as your speak, and its merciless laser-focus has you starting to ramble before you catch yourself and swallow, pressing your fingers together to stop yourself from fiddling with the air.

“You propose,” she says finally, voice slicked with either thoughtfulness or sheer weariness, “some very valid points. I suppose a bit of reprioritization is in order.” Nadia nods at you, smile warming a tad. “Thank you. I…appreciate your care.”

You smile back, relief washing down your spine like a cool compress.

Across from you, Lucio is staring at you with a mixture of indignance and disbelief on his face. He opens his mouth, and you smell the complaint before it has a chance to fully form; Asra senses it too, and leans forward, hackles rising—

Nadia claps sharply, heading off the conflict without sparing a glance at either Asra or Lucio; her eyes are fixed on you when she says, “In light of recent events, communal breakfast will start an hour later. Lucio, please shower _thoroughly_ before our meeting with the head of housing. I’ll see you all later today.”

And with that, she sweeps out of the room, leaving you all summarily dismissed.

A few hours after breakfast (Portia can cook like nobody’s business, a discovery made much to the glee of your tastebuds), you get The Email.

It’s from the head of the judicial committee for student offenses, but what stops you from sliding it straight into the spam-adjacent folder of half the student life emails you receive is the bright red “high priority” label smacked on by the subject line—and the fact that it’s copied to the president of the university.

It clicks open innocently enough, but as you scan through the message, your eyes widen until you can feel the skin at your temples stretching beyond comfort.

_Dear Student,_

_The Council of Student Judicial Review has received information indicating your involvement in the tragic events that transpired at Vesuvia House last night. You are hereby summoned to a testimonial hearing. Please arrive in advance at the address below, with your university ID._

_Due to the nature of the incident and ongoing investigations, your discretion is required; failure to comply will result in severe consequences issued by the university and a note of the offense on your official student record._

The address is printed below the body of the message, along with a date and time. Absently, you note that your hearing—the word sounds absurd in your head—is set for later that afternoon, in just a few hours, but you’re far more preoccupied with the insinuations of the email to pay it much mind.

Your _involvement_? The university is concerned with your _involvement_ in the murder that you called to report? Could you seriously be a suspect?

The idea is crazy, but you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just gotten yourself into a much bigger mess than you’d thought.

Your hands shake slightly when you hand your ID to the receptionist outside Provost Valerius’s office; she glances at you a little oddly but doesn’t comment. A few taps later and she hands you your ID back with a casual, “Go on in, they’re ready for you.”

You muster a weak smile and tuck your ID away as you walk in; the plastic suddenly feels flimsy between your clammy fingers and you realize your heart is racing.

Frosted glass doors part before you and close behind you in near-total silence; waiting for you in the provost’s office are five pairs of eyes, all trained on you with unnerving eagerness.

“Glad you could join us,” Provost Valerius says, lip curling slightly—he looks displeased, but you can’t imagine why. You’d arrived a full twenty minutes early and even changed into an outfit Nadia had kindly glanced over and deemed “appropriately business casual” for the interview you’d said you had as an alibi.

“You’re right on time,” the provost continues drily, as if your punctuality is a grave offense against him. He gestures with one hand to the four figures sitting in a semi-circle around his desk, then at the empty chair directly in front of them. “Have a seat. I believe you’re acquainted with my colleagues?”

You sit, eyes flicking over the faces gathered in front of you. When your silence lasts long enough to be an answer in its own right, Valerius heaves an irritated sigh.

“Vlastomil, Provost of the Judicial Review Committee. I believe he sent you today’s summons.” The JR Provost looks just about as pleased to be there as you; his pallid face is uncomfortably waxy under the fluorescent light of Valerius’s office, an illusion only made worse by the rhythmic way he wrings his hands and stares at you.

Next to Vlastomil is what appears to be a humanoid manifestation of rage in a red pantsuit. Their fingertips drum rapidly on the arm of their chair as they fix a furrowed amber gaze on you. “You better not have forgotten who I am!” they bark, fingers curling into a semi-menacing fist.

Valerius only sighs and rolls his eyes, pinching at the bridge of his nose in a manner vaguely reminiscent of Nadia.

“Vice Dean Vulgora,” he says flatly, and moves on. You suppose it’s a testament that he doesn’t think further explanation necessary.

On Valerius’s other side, with what appears to be a full-size burrito hidden in her tiny sleeve, is a woman with mousy brown hair and a watery gaze; her mouth looks just as petite as the rest of her, but as you watch, she somehow fits a solid third of the burrito into her mouth and swallows in the time it takes Valerius to extend a hand in her direction.

“Provost Volta, Head of Housing and Dining,” he says with no little trace of disgust as he watches a dab of sour cream plop onto the shiny wood of his desk. He needn’t worry, though—as soon as it hits the surface, Volta lets out a squeak and wipes it clean with a finger before popping it into her mouth.

You nod and shift your gaze to the final figure, only to fervently wish you hadn’t.

They’re watching you with a cold, curious intensity that feels all too predatory. Their bottom lashes stand out in the light, strikingly similar to stitches—neat, straight, and taut—when they tilt their head slightly at you, too-wide smile still fixed on their mouth. Their eyes, however, send a chill down your spine.

“Quaestor Valdemar,” Valerius says, and even he sounds a bit unsettled, “Head of Student Health.”

You tear your eyes away, unable to shake the feeling of Valdemar’s eyes examining your every move, and try your best to sit up straight.

“And I, as you know, am Vice President of Student and Campus Life,” Valerius finishes, as though you could have somehow missed the gold plaque on his desk announcing his title, not to mention the fact that you’d trekked all the way to his office.

“I see no reason to waste more time,” he continues primly. “Would you like to confess now, or must we go through all the formalities?”

Your ears ring. Surely you’d misheard him? You gape, incredulous eyes darting from one administrator to another in vain.

Valerius’s eyes flicker upwards, as though he’s barely restraining an eyeroll. “I see. Very well. Provost Vlastomil, if you would?”

Vlastomil starts, fumbling with the manila folder in his lap. “Ah, yes, err, the case, your guilt, obviously it was you—”

“The _charges_ , if you would, Provost.”

Vlastomil clears his throat and begins reading, apparently having found the correct page. “You, student 42069—”

Your eyes widen as he rattles off your student ID number—are you not even to be referred to by name anymore?!

“—stand accused (shouldn’t this say guilty? I do think you’re guilty.) of murder in the first degree, fraudulent reporting, and evasion of justice.”

Your mouth works on its hinge as you gawk, speechless. Valerius begins preparations for another eyeroll and you finally find your voice: it comes out as an indignant squawk.

“I didn’t do anything! How could I be guilty?!”

Vulgora slams a fist on the chair arm, nearly splintering the wood. “Of course you’re guilty! You called the police, didn’t you? That’s doing something!”

“What?! That doesn’t even make any sense!” you splutter. “Why would I have reported the murder if I did it?!”

“That’s exactly something a murderer would say!”

Vulgora’s shouts take on a new level and you fight the urge to flinch from their flailing fists—somehow, you get the distinct impression it wouldn’t take much to redirect their punches from the air to you.

Volta mumbles something that looks rather like “oh please stop,” but her tremulous voice is lost entirely in the fray.

It takes a full five minutes for the combined (if relatively unenthused) efforts of the administrative panel to calm Vulgora down and get them to stop threatening to beat you into a pulp if you don’t confess.

Suffice to say you’re shaken.

“I didn’t do it,” you say, scraping up your last reserves of strength to look each of the provosts in the eye as you declare your innocence. “I don’t even know who the victim was, and I—I would never _murder_ someone!”

Valerius purses his lips and slants a sidelong glance at his colleagues. Only Valdemar meets it, looking just a little too amused by the proceedings. His gaze slides back to yours.

“Do you have any evidence?”

You stare at him. “You’re asking me if I have evidence that I didn’t commit the murder that I reported to the police.”

He smiles tightly. The expression doesn’t quite fit his face, as though he’d learnt it by copying a wax model with vastly different proportions. “Correct. It is very easy to say that you were asleep, but given the…history of your fellow residents, we must be diligent in our search for justice.”

Red floods your vision at Valerius’s smarmy, bared-teeth grin.

“Do you,” you grit out, trying to keep calm, “have any evidence?”

Valerius falters. Beside him, Volta squeaks into the empty foil wrapper of her burrito and edges away from Valdemar.

Vulgora’s eyes burn into you and you can sense Vlastomil itching to say something, but to your surprise, they wait until Valerius takes a careful breath and replies,

“We have collected enough information from the forensic report to draw a conclusion.”

Your eyes narrow and you push your shoulders back, trying to remember everything from that intro psych class you took for distribution requirements back in freshman year.

“You don’t have any real evidence. Someone is trying to frame me,” you announce with a confidence you don’t entirely feel. “What exactly makes me such a convincing perp? What weapon was used? Did the real murderer sneak my prints off a cup with some tape? A strand of my hair, maybe?

“Or is this _conclusion_ you’ve drawn just that I’m an easy scapegoat to tie this all up and keep it hush-hush?”

Your words ring out in the dead silence of Valerius’s office. Outraged glares pummel you, but you keep your chin up, staring Valerius down.

A soft, sibilant voice breaks the stillness.

“Oh, _very_ clever!”

Your eyes snap to Valdemar; somehow, the glee in their eyes is anything but comforting.

“Such an interesting brain you’ve got,” they say, eyes glittering. You clench your fingers under your thighs to stave off the feverish rush of adrenaline their wide, toothy smile shoots through you. “I’d love to see how all your neurons are firing right now.”

Cold sweat prickles at the nape of your neck and you make a note to make the trek and donate your blood that year at the hospital _not_ affiliated with the university student health centre.

With some difficulty, you tear your eyes away from Valdemar, trying not to feel like cornered prey, and tell Valerius, “Show me the report, then. Whatever it says on there, I can prove I didn’t do it.”

“Now, that would be a massive breach of WIPPA an—”

You interrupt Vlastomil with the trump card you’d figured out was up your sleeve during Vulgora’s rant.

“Give me a chance to clear my name, or I go public. Arcana University is proud to uphold such an untarnished reputation, I believe. It would certainly be a pity if news got out that not only was a student brutally murdered (on campus, no less!), but that there was such an elaborate scheme to cover it up, wouldn’t it?”

Vulgora fairly screeches, face turning nearly as red as their pantsuit, but Valerius appears to be mulling your words over despite the snarl frozen on his face.

Finally, after a mottled range of colors and expressions flicker over his features, he says, biting off each word like a nettle, “Very well. We will meet one week from now—at your trial. Evidence against you will be presented and you,” he pauses in disgust, “will have a chance to present your own findings.”

His lip curls in ill-disguised contempt as he gestures to you, wrist limp. “You are free to go, for now. I would advise you, however, not to find yourself overly interested in anything… _problematic_.”

It takes all your self-control not to shove your chair into his desk when you rise, but somehow you manage. You even make it all the way out of the building before tearing at your hair and screaming at the sky.

Several people on the sidewalk pause to eye you and give you a wide berth when they cross, but all things considered, you aren’t that much of a spectacle for a college campus. Still seething, you set off stomping for Vesuvia.

If your innocence rests in your own hands with a countdown for the trial, you’ll need a plan.

You halt and swing around abruptly, charting course for the nearest café and library instead. If you’re going to uncover a full-blown conspiracy, you’ll do it unapologetically caffeinated and enraged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Kudos and comments are both welcomed and encouraged. ;)   
> Happy October, my dears!

**Author's Note:**

> *ominous shimmy music*
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! This idea has been marinating in my brain since a friend recommended the game, and I'm so excited to share it with you!  
> Arcana University is largely based on my irl school (I'm taking classes remotely and feeling....some type of way about it heh). If you've got a guess as to a) the murderer, or b) the campus, leave a comment! I'd love to confirm/deny...or maybe neither 😈


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